


you've played by all the same rules (i've got to hand it to you)

by extryn



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Amputation, Body Horror, Conditioning, Dark Doctor (Doctor Who), Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Medical Procedures, Medical Trauma, Mind Control, Mutilation, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Post Episode AU: s03e13 Last of the Time Lords
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2018-04-18 11:46:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4704887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extryn/pseuds/extryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Master wakes aboard the TARDIS, a prisoner in his own body. Apparently, the Doctor had no choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _If lies were cats, you'd be a litter._
> 
>  
> 
> ( **WARNING: this story contains graphic descriptions of amputation and focuses heavily on the resulting themes of body horror, loss of autonomy and sense of self. It parallels experiences of institutionalisation and medical abuse, so please give this one a miss if these things hit too close to home.**
> 
> I'd like to add a disclaimer here that I'm not trying to paint disability in and of itself as a horrifying, or negative experience, so much as I'm aiming to derive horror from the abuse of a person in that situation, and the resulting loss of dignity they would experience.)

The Master didn't believe in afterlives, in desperate human fantasies. It was a simple fact: _all things die_. Yet still, here he was, light blurring his vision, the Doctor's presence filtering through his senses as if through cotton wool. The pain seemed quite distant, now, like the bullet lodged in his gut belonged to someone else. His hearts were fluttering, out-of-time in erratic staccato with the rhythm in his mind, his body racked with shivers.

The Doctor waved something over his eyes; a syringe. A caustic, sweet smell clouded his breath.

 _Idiot_ , the Master thought, _typical, bloody idiot_ , and hoped he died on the table, the better to spite him.

 

***

 

Consciousness came to him in ebbs and flows. Sometimes, he was aware enough to notice the passing of time, the half-dreams that substituted for waking moments. Others, he'd gather the strength to open his eyes and realise he'd been awake for hours without knowing it.

The light was always too bright, the little glimpses of the world outside his body too short. Sleep was good, as if he'd gone an eternity without it.

 

***

 

He came into awareness at the touch of the Doctor's skin; warm, sweating. Fingertips pressed over his bare chest, along the side of his neck, where the Master's pulses beat sluggishly. He opened his mouth, trying to manoeuvre his tongue around the idea of words, finding his mouth parched, his throat rasping.

'Ssh,' the Doctor's voice hushed, 'Don't try to move just yet. Rest.'

Vaguely, the Master was aware he'd been out for days, and wanted to protest, but something burned at his collarbone and he rapidly lost the ability to care. His lips tugged into a smile, places and memories scrolling through his mind. The Doctor was giving him the _good_ stuff. The Doctor keeping narcotics in the TARDIS, imagine that? The image of the Doctor, pupils blown wide, relaxed and pliable and sweating at the Master's feet took hold of him, and the Master indulged the fantasy for a long while before he realised he was alone.

The dream morphed, the Doctor by his side, proudly wearing his marks, displaying his ownership. The Doctor's confidence, unstoppable. Reign, planet, toppling; benevolent rulers, shaping the universe that was their birthright.

There was pain, somewhere, and the sensation of something being quite wrong, but the Master merely peered at them, squinting down at the ideas from a distance.

 

***

 

This time, the Master awoke in considerable discomfort. A dull, bone-deep ache was set into his entire body, like an infection. His limbs felt feather-light, numb, his fingers as if immersed in water. He wiggled them, but couldn't feel, and the pain that small movement provoked was enough to dissuade him from trying again. He groaned, hoping to attract the attention of the Doctor, and took stock of his situation.

They were aboard the TARDIS, no doubt, which meant the Doctor had taken him prisoner. He remembered, the way the Doctor had stared at him blankly. _If that's what I have to do_. Evidently, his body was taking some time to heal from the gunshot - and rightly so, he ought to have regenerated. The seconds ticked away in his mind. Ten days, seven hours, forty-two minutes since the Doctor had wept and begged as he died.

He winced, pain suddenly striking up towards his spine. Shifting around was out of the question, and he called out in a breathy, dry rasp. Squinting against the harsh lighting, he caught sight of himself, covered in thin blankets over an examination table, low bars protecting the sides. A fluid line ran from over his head, to under his chin, where no doubt it inserted into his jugular.

The Doctor pushed open the door, his features blurred. 'You're--you're awake. I'm so glad.'

'Doctor,' the Master said, his voice cracking over the word. The pain was breaking through his drug-induced haze, sweat springing up across his body.

'Here,' the Doctor said, passing a straw between his lips. The Master drank, his throat too uncomfortable to manage more than a sip at first, until the water wet his mouth and he took as much as the Doctor would allow.

Leaning his head back, the Master groaned and breathed his way through the flares of pain. 'Fuck you.'

Looking up, sceptical, the Doctor fiddled at the end of the cot. 'You don't mean that.'

The Master watched, too sore to be unduly bothered as the Doctor removed a bag of dark, cloudy liquid and replaced it with an empty one. Urine. Bloody urine, at that, even a week later. He cast an eye over the Doctor, biting his tongue for the moment. 'What happened?'

The Doctor gave him an unreadable look, checking another drainage jar. This one contained thick, purulent fluid, stained bright red with blood. Strange, considering the Master couldn't identify any systemic infection or fever within his body - then again, it was always hard to tell under sedation, and he'd sustained enough damage his biochemistry was unlikely to be reliable.

'You got shot,' the Doctor said unnecessarily, and then, after weighing up the statement, 'You almost died.'

The Master ran his tongue around his mouth, tasting old blood. 'Something went wrong. Why've I been under so long?'

The Doctor ran a hand through his hair, leaving it wild. 'It was a bit more...complex, than I expected. Saving you. You're fine, honestly, you're looking really good.'

'Complex,' the Master repeated, trying to probe the Doctor's mind - but even his surface thoughts were tightly tucked away, and the Master hardly had the concentration to work around his defences. 'Well, I feel like shit.'

The Doctor rested a hand over his forehead, and the Master shied away from it, biting back a yelp as the action seemed to hurt _everywhere_. 'I'll give you some more painkillers, you're almost due.'

'How noble,' the Master muttered, letting the Doctor tamper with the port on his neck. The analgesia went in with a familiar prickle under his skin, and then sent him floating.

'I'll be back later,' the Doctor said, 'You should rest.'

The Master licked at the dry skin on his lips. 'You should wash your hair, or wear a hat.' He found the thought of sleep quite enjoyable, and let his mind drift into that creative, floating place, falling into dreams before sleep.

 

***

 

This time, the Master woke to considerably dulled pain, and the Doctor sitting in the corner of the room, watching him. Feigning sleep, the Master watched him through slitted eyelids, chin propped on his hand and his eyes far away.

Another day had passed. The Master felt much more aware, more like himself, despite the lingering aches. Though his mind was clear, his body felt separate and distant, his fingers, ankles, swimming and numb. The sensation of the bedclothes against his skin was like being adrift in soup, all featureless and warm and weighted down. Probably the analgesia. The Master suspected the Doctor had thieved his medical equipment from 21st Century Earth, judging by what he'd seen, and it was no surprise that the human drugs weren't well-tolerated by his physiology.

He steeled himself, and opened his eyes to meet the Doctor's. 'So. Am I allowed out of bed, now?'

To his credit, the Doctor wasn't startled, leaning back upright with another of those cryptic looks. 'Not yet, no. I just want to wait a bit longer, it'll be soon, I promise.'

Swallowing against his dry throat, the Master scowled. 'This is ridiculous. It's been two weeks, Doctor. I need to be up, walking.' Gritting his teeth, he shifted his body, the pain strong but bearable. He braced his arms against the bed and attempted to lever himself into a sitting position, but couldn't find traction, as if the bed was made from sand.

'No, no, don't--' the Doctor yelped, rushing to steady him against the pillows.

Too late. The Master squirmed against the Doctor's hands, reaching to grab him, pull him away - and then stared at the place where he _felt_ his hand, and saw nothing, just his own body shifting under the sheets.

'Doctor,' the Master said, carefully, his hearts speeding up, his stomach queasy, 'Why can't I move?'

The Doctor hissed, rubbing a hand across his eyes. 'It's--I was going to explain, when you were better, really you should stay resting--'

'Why can't I _move_ ,' the Master demanded, thoughts of paralysis - but that bullet had been nowhere near his spine - racing through his mind.

'Please, try to understand,' the Doctor babbled, 'I know it's going to be a lot for you to take in, but it'll get easier, and--'

The Master grimaced, looking up at him with equal parts humiliation and fury. 'Doctor. Please.'

The Doctor bit his lip, staying quiet. 'Okay,' he said. 'Okay.' He pulled the covers down, revealing the Master's body, and the Master's world shifted upside-down for a few, horrific moments.

His limbs were missing. All of them.

Speechless, the Master stared up at the Doctor.

'I had no choice,' the Doctor says, gently. 'I couldn't just let you...you'd find some way, you always do. And you'd kill, and destroy, and it has to stop.'

Thick, compressive bandages covered what was left of his hips and upper arms. In grotesque fascination, the Master worked the muscles he could still _feel_ , every finger and toe, the bend of his elbows and knees, and saw the remains of his limbs shift in their dressings.

Above him, the Doctor continued talking, looking down at his hands. 'You're my responsibility. I won't let you hurt anyone, ever again.'

'So you...you…' the Master faltered, his throat thickening, 'You _mutilated_ me?'

A heavy dressing covered his abdomen, lightly yellow-stained with discharge. Drainage tubes led from his wounds, collecting at the foot of the cot, where a catheter was trailing down from where it disappeared into his body. He felt utterly numb to his core, as if watching the scene play out from a distance, yet still he felt the press of sheets against his knees, the bedding beneath his hands, and desperately wanted to believe his body over his mind.

'I haven't,' said the Doctor, 'It's only for one regeneration. It's better than a jail cell, and no worse than what the Time Lords would have done.'

The Master waved his head back and forth, wishing he could make this nightmare end just by closing his eyes. 'You're insane. You've gone even madder than I am. Even for you, this is depraved.'

'I didn't have a choice,' the Doctor repeated. 'I know it's hard, but everything's going to be alright.'

'You've got to be joking,' the Master said, unable to stifle a laugh. 'You couldn't have just let me die.'

The Doctor nestled the covers around him, under his shoulders. 'I'm going to give you some time. Try and rest up.'

'Hold on,' the Master interjected, 'We're not done here!' The Doctor fixed him with a pitying look, and he wasn't wiling to shout or beg, to lose the only control he had left - and so he watched the Doctor leave, and heard the unmistakeable click of a lock.

A lock. Like if by some miracle, he managed to move, there was anywhere to go. The Master threw his head back, and glared anger at the ceiling, waiting.

Waiting very quickly turned to an unsettling awareness of the pain where his limbs had been severed. The very reality of it was difficult to process, his hands constantly moving to touch, to feel, until his fingertips were where they ought to have met torso, and came into contact with nothing. He shifted his arm, the bandaged stub of his bicep swinging out from under the covers, and stared at it, willing the phantom sensations to go away.

The movement was hurting worse the more he persisted with it, and he slumped back into the cot, groaning.

This was a new low for the Doctor, certainly. Sick, even by his standards. He knew the Doctor had a deep, as-yet untapped capacity for righteous violence, and still, he found himself mildly shocked. Perhaps that was to be expected, given he'd woken up to find his arms and legs sawn off.

The Master's mind whirred, calculating this new development. Yes, this was an unusual and somewhat disturbing setback, but with it came advantages. Namely, the reaction of the Doctor's little human disciples, who could usually be relied on to bring out all kinds of heartbreak and moral crisis. The Master had no doubt that at some point in time, the weight of his actions would weaken him - and the Doctor had always been so easy to push, even aboard the Valiant. Perhaps even easier, now he was so visibly unstable.

Then, of course, he'd have to convince the Doctor to help him regenerate. He was fond of this body, but more fond of his usual physical capacity. Especially since he'd need it to escape, or wreak enough havoc that the Doctor was forced to release him.

Breaking the Doctor, of course, was the critical step, and thankfully one he'd spent a year practicing. Forcing the Doctor to live with disfiguring him, and righting his wrongs by killing him - well, it'd almost make the humiliation of being no more than a head and a torso with a rubber tube stuffed inside his cock worth it.

 

***

 

The Doctor entered, this time, with a bundle of gauze and tubing in his arms. Another eight hours had passed, the Master fitfully sleeping, jerking himself awake after realising he'd dosed off, and fervently wishing to be whole when he opened his eyes every time.

'How's the pain?' the Doctor asked mildly, setting his equipment at the foot of the cot. The Master instinctively went to kick it off and winced as the remainder of his quadriceps twitched.

'Terrible,' said the Master, 'I want whatever you had me on before.'

Fondly, the Doctor smiled at him, but the Master saw nothing in his eyes. He pulled the covers down, the Master's body bare underneath. 'Well, you're trying to fool me, so you must be feeling better.'

The Master shifted about, turning his head to face the wall. 'You need to turn me over, you know.'

'I don't want to disrupt the stitches,' the Doctor murmured, peeling off a strip of paper tape from the stump of his right leg. 'If you think you have sores, let me know.'

Cursing to himself, the Master looked back around to watch as his bandages were unwound. His sensation was...altered. The areas where the bandages had been applying compression prickled, thick and numb with swelling, and when the Doctor's hand ran over his wound, pain struck through where the back of his thigh used to be.

Something was squeezing his knee, as if the Doctor was leaning on it, and his mouth opened before he could berate himself. No knee. No leg. His nerves would accommodate in time, and until then, indulging in phantom sensations would give him nothing.

'Okay,' said the Doctor, 'Take a breath for me, it shouldn't be too bad, but it might hurt.' He flicked up the edge of some heavily-stained gauze, and paused there.

The Master glared at him, and took a breath anyway. The dressing pulled away, with a sharp, barely-tolerable burst of pain, and he gritted his teeth until it was over. The Doctor pressed fresh gauze immediately over the wound, a small amount of blood and fluid seeping through.

'I'm going to take out your drain,' the Doctor said, 'You shouldn't need it anymore.' Pinching cotton around the exposed tubing, the Doctor gently slid it free. The sensation was equal parts pain and something _internal_ , a tugging, that the Master couldn't put a name to.

'Let me see,' he croaked, breathing steadily through his nose until the feeling faded.

'Sure?' asked the Doctor, peeling a fresh dressing out from its waxy paper backing. 'We can do this later.'

'Let me _see_ ,' he repeated, throwing his head back against the pillow in lieu of any other way to express his frustration.

'Okay,' the Doctor said, again, and carefully parted the cotton in his hands.

It looked dreadful, even by human standards. A wide, deeply inflamed gash spread across the nub of his thigh, a hand's width below his hip. Stitches crudely approximated the edges, like some kind of bodily zipper that could be unfastened to expose bone and muscle underneath. The surgical wound pinched his skin together, the outer margins extending up the side of his limb puffed out with swelling and looking like some kind of grotesque dairy product, vacuum-sealed in a plastic pouch.

The Doctor doused the wound with iodine, and taped a new dressing in place. Then came cotton wadding, and the heavy-weight bandages that kept the swelling in check.

The image was burned in his mind, long after the bandages were on.

The wound on each limb was cleaned, re-dressed, and the simple act of moving around to give the Doctor access was physically exhausting.

'Hold on,' the Doctor said, 'I'll be just a minute,' and the Master gratefully closed his eyes, the cot digging into his back in ways he'd never imagined a mattress could, but the stillness relaxing all the same.

He stirred at the sound of a door to the side, opening to admit the Doctor, water sloshing over the sides of a bucket as he walked. He carried a sponge under his spare arm, and some towels, his sleeves rolled to his elbows.

'I won't be long, okay?' the Doctor said, his voice thick with false-care, and the Master wished he wouldn't insist on it; the hero, the martyr, like he expected the Master to have any desire to enable his delusions.

He said nothing, and waited as the Doctor exposed him again. The sponge was dipped in the bucket's soapy water, gently squeezed, and dragged over his skin. The Master hated to admit it felt good; warm, lulling, until the water began to cool and dry on his skin. The Doctor followed the sponge down his body with a towel, carefully wiping him dry. Little traces of blood came off on the rag.

'I think it's about time you had this out, too,' the Doctor said, closing the valve on his catheter.

'I can manage,' the Master growled, before he realised what he'd said, and the Doctor gave him that peculiar, pitying look.

'I know you want your independence,' the Doctor said, holding his hands up, 'And I promise, this isn't forever. But right now, you have to trust me to help you get better. Alright?'

The Master said nothing, and braced himself as the Doctor worked the tubing out from his prick. It was easier than he'd expected, sliding gently free, but the feeling was maddening, like urinating and being scoured from the inside and ejaculating at the same time. He forced himself to let none of it show on his face, despite the fact that the Doctor wasn't watching.

There was a strange kind of pain, as the tube laid out on the cot, where his body wasn't sure what to make of having nothing inside it and the muscles that had been forced open slowly contracted again.

'I need to piss,' the Master grunted, hoping the words conveyed that what he really wanted was for it to end up all over the Doctor, and he would realise how ridiculous this entire situation was.

'Thought you might,' said the Doctor, hoisting the Master's body up under his fingertips. 'Steady, now, I'll carry you.'

Then he was being pulled up by his armpits, his body screaming in protest, and carried as if he were a mannequin across the floor. His head spun, his vision darkening for a brief moment and coming back too-bright, the Doctor's jacket crumpled against his face.

He felt the Doctor's elbow shift, and heard his footsteps echo against tile ( _he'd never hear his own_ footsteps _again, for Rassilon's sake_ ). Then the Doctor lowered him, and he felt the cold of the toilet seat beneath him.

The Doctor steadied him, not letting him rest his full weight on his bandaged lower limbs. 'Alright,' he said.

The Master groaned behind his lips, squeezed tightly shut, and tried to put his mind onto the simple task of emptying his bladder. Silence passed, for a few increasingly-awkward moments, and the Master summoned the presence of mind to relax his muscles, and get this over with. A short dribble of urine ran over his skin, which the Doctor cleaned unthinkingly with a wad of paper, and he was carried back to his bed.

'If you need anything, just yell,' said the Doctor, 'I won't be far away.'

The Master barely had time to ponder whether this was disturbing or not, before his body demanded sleep, and he let it take its dues.

 

***

 

Over the next seventy-two hours, he spent most of his waking moments being tended to by the Doctor. His wounds were re-dressed, frequently, and his body bathed once more. Dutifully, the Doctor carried him to the ensuite when he requested and they performed the humiliating ritual of toileting, where the Doctor always watched carefully and wiped him clean.

Gradually, his need for rest decreased. The time when he was alert, in varying degrees of pain, and _bored_ , lengthened to a few hours at a stretch.

During these times, the Doctor liked to lecture him.

'I wish you wouldn't be so angry,' the Doctor continued, as if the conversation had been ongoing around the Master's sleep. 'I can't blame you, I know what this is like, but I wish I could make you understand.'

'I understand very well,' said the Master with venom, 'All that egomania about being the last Time Lord got to your head, and you figured if I wouldn't agree to being your pet, you'd have to butcher me into one.'

The Doctor's mouth twisted, an angry slash across his face. 'I'm trying to _help_ you. Martha, Jack, they wanted me to let you die. Or let you rot, locked up in some prison.'

' _I_ wanted you to let me die,' pointed out the Master, 'But no, you had to be the hero, you had to be the one to save me. No matter what it took. Isn't that right, Doctor?'

'I had no _choice_ ,' the Doctor repeats, like if it's said enough times, it'll somehow make it true.

The Master didn't relent. 'The ends justify the means, don’t they? How much torture will you commit for my own good, before you finally admit you've gone too far?'

'This isn't torture,' the Doctor insisted, 'You have full run of the TARDIS. You can do anything you want, once you're well enough to be out of bed on your own. There's no shock collar, or whatever else I was supposed to do to keep you from...from _killing_. And when I can trust you, I'll put this right.'

The Master laughed, at the absurdity of it all, at the nonsense the Doctor was pouring on him. Once, he would have thought this obscene, it would have sickened him to think this lay at the bottom of the Doctor's heart. Now, he can't tell where the Doctor ends and madness begins.

'And this is better than killing, is it,' he murmured, the remnants of his right arm wriggling grotesquely, like a worm chopped in half. He looked into the Doctor's eyes and made no effort to hide his expression.

'Yes,' said the Doctor, staring back at him, resolute and dead at once. 'It is.'

 

***

 

The Master lay, staring at the ceiling. The room was bare; a faucet off to his left, draining onto an inclined steel surface where the water disappeared into the wall, a benchtop, a waste chute. In front of him, the door to the rest of the TARDIS, and beside it a cheap metal-framed chair where the Doctor liked to sit and watch him, and to his right, the ensuite. The doors were still kept locked, and the Master made no effort to launch himself out of his cot.

Books he couldn't touch or read were placed on his bedside table.

'Doctor,' he called, feeling his stomach shift. 'Come here.'

The door clicked before the handle turned, and the Doctor's head poked through, then the rest of his body. 'Is everything alright?'

'No,' said the Master, _you've cut off my arms and legs_ , and then, 'I have to take a shit.'

'Right,' said the Doctor, and rolled up his shirtsleeves around his forearms. 'Lift your arms up - there, that's it- hold on.'

The Master tolerated this bizarre fantasy, letting the Doctor hoist him by the underarms, and carry him through to the bathroom.

Catching sight of himself in the mirror, the Master winced. 'I look dreadful. You'll have to give me a shave after this.'

'Maybe,' the Doctor admitted, rubbing his shoulderblade with the edge of his thumb, 'We'll see, okay?'

The porcelain was cold, soothing against the deadened ache of his wounds. The Master sincerely hoped he was about to unleash the most toxic excrement the Doctor had ever had the misfortune of smelling.

'This would be a lot less unpleasant if you'd give me some privacy,' the Master said, averting his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at what was left of his body. He could still feel the cool china against the back of his knees, the tiles between his toes. It was so tempting to block out the Doctor's hands, steadying him around his waist, the way his hands grasped at nothing. Balance was challenging.

'I'm not looking,' protested the Doctor, and shifted his eyes a couple of centimetres above the Master's head.

Bearing down, the Master waited for his bowels to move.

'Is everything okay?' the Doctor prompted, moving a hand up to stroke him between his shoulders.

'Please, shut up,' the Master snapped, gritting his teeth and wishing he could ask the Doctor to just _stop_ without feeling more violated for needing to. Air escaped through his nose as he worked his muscles, forcing the waste through. The noise of it hitting the water in the bowl echoed.

Feeling the first stabs of a cramp, and thoroughly unfinished, the Master drew himself upright all the same and announced, 'I'm done.'

'You sure?' the Doctor asked, persisting with that awful rubbing, as if he were an infant.

'I couldn't possibly be more certain,' the Master ground out, 'Now hurry up.'

Being unable to stand up, the Doctor instead wound a few layers of tissue around his hand and delicately shifted the stump of one thigh upwards. The Master tolerated the Doctor's hand winding under his buttock, closing his eyes shut and waiting for it to be over.

'Want a wet cloth?' the Doctor offered, flushing the toilet for him.

The Master simply shook his head, eyes still closed, and allowed the Doctor to ferry him back to bed.

 

***

 

'These are looking good,' said the Doctor, peeling up one side of the dressing over his left thigh. 'You're healing much quicker, now. Much more normal.'

'Will you let me out of this room , then?' the Master asked, trying extremely hard to sound less furious and more cooperative. Even worse than the situation at hand was the boredom; being bedbound for nearing three weeks, unable to move or read, was becoming intolerable.

The Doctor wandered off to the sink, arranging some scissors, forceps. 'I don't want you moving around too much just yet, but I think we can have the stitches out.'

The Master's heart involuntarily leapt at the thought. 'Yes, please. Now?'

'Yep, now,' the Doctor said, smiling. His eyes lingered just a little too long over the Master's face, his smile a little too far-away.

The Doctor's long fingers flicked up the dressings and removed them, one by one. The thick wounds had closed over well, a bright red line of inflammation surrounding the deep, sticky edges. Redness collected at the edge of the sutures, where they pinched his skin together in little black knots, like insects lined up to feed.

The Doctor slid a pair of sharp scissors across each one, and then pulled the black threads free. It hardly hurt, so much as it itched, and the Master's fingers ached to scratch.

With the covers pulled back, his cock laid free, the air cool on his skin. The Doctor simply ignored it and removed the stitches on his right leg, instead.

He settled the covers back around the Master's hips, and bent over his shoulders. Cradling the Master's body from behind, the Doctor delicately cut away the stitches at the end of upper arm, the Master flinching as he felt a sharp tug, here and there. Thin fingers brushed over the sensitive, heated wounds, now bare.

'I'd like a shirt,' said the Master, 'And some trousers.'

'Trousers are going to be too difficult,' said the Doctor, 'You can have some pants, and the shirt is fine.'

'I don't have a choice,' shrugged the Master, the stumps of his arms angling up, where he should have had elbows and hands. Even the Doctor shied away from the sight, and the Master had very little idea how to feel about that.

He was shifted up so the Doctor could pull briefs over his hips, the cotton itchy and unfamiliar after so long naked. Next was a shirt, which felt over-sized, and the Master realised he'd lost a significant amount of weight. The Doctor rolled up the sleeves around his shoulders, the well-starched fabric crumpling.

'You look like your old self,' said the Doctor, proudly, settling the covers around him again. 'Comfortable?'

The Master didn't dignify this with an answer. 'So. Will I get a wheelchair? Even the 21st Century has some primitive bionics, I could control it myself.'

The room, suddenly, went quiet, and the Master realised he'd crossed some unspoken line.

'I can't let you do that,' the Doctor said, low and dark. 'It's too dangerous for you, you're too fragile like this. You wanted to _die_. You wouldn't regenerate, can you even imagine what that was like? Prove to me you'll look after yourself, and we can start with a regular wheelchair. After that, well, we'll see.'

'You're joking,' the Master said, the words automatically coming out of him. 'Tell me you're joking.'

The Doctor's eyes went sad and quiet. 'I'm not joking, Master.'

'You're going to leave me here again,' the Master said.

'I can read to you,' said the Doctor, 'We could play chess, I don't know, we could watch some Muppets. Wombles? I can't remember.'

'Teletubbies,' the Master muttered. 'Get out.'

'Please, let me help,' the Doctor said, 'I can tell you're hurting, just let me--'

'Get. _Out_ ,' the Master snapped, with as much violence as possible. Blessedly, the Doctor obeyed.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Take off your disguise_   
>  _I know that underneath it's me_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. Yes. I know there is another WIP that I should definitely be working on and not just writing more WIPs. I'm not perfect :P But these two are a wonderful, messed-up pair and I miss writing them at the height of their fucked-uppery. I might add a little warning here for emetophobia, otherwise, the usual ones apply. You know, I always love it when I'm about to read a Doctor/Master fic and the warnings say something along the lines of: "M rating because, well, the Master isn't a very nice person." For once I get to say - warnings: the Doctor is being a completely terrifying, abusive person.

The Doctor entered without knocking, the familiar turn of the lock signalling the Master awake from his half-stupor. 'I've been thinking,' he announced.

'Careful,' the Master deadpanned, 'You might strain something.'

'I, I know you're trying,' he started, fiddling inside his pocket, 'I'm trying too. I know you think I'm being too harsh on you, but I just want you to get better.'

'Then let me walk,' the Master said, straining forward, 'Let me move around, exercise, it'll help me heal.'

The Doctor smiled broadly. 'See, I knew it. Okay. First, I thought maybe you'd like that shave.'

Immediately, the Master was wide awake. Hearts racing, he downregulated his sympathetics so as not to give himself away. He blessed the Doctor's stupidity, his own patience.

The nightmare was almost over. So simple, to half-close his eyes and feign exhaustion, to watch the Doctor from his peripheral vision, to submit limply until the Doctor dropped his guard, and then just let his neck _slip_ —

And then, the Doctor pulled from his pocket one of those automatic, powered shavers common with 21st Century humans, and the Master swore to himself.

'Oh, come on, I thought this was a treat,' the Master started, letting his voice stay rough with pretended sleep. 'Not even a proper razor?'

The Doctor rolled a stool over to the Master's bedside, and perched himself on it. 'Cut it out, it works perfectly well.'

The Master shifted himself up, allowing himself a proper look at the device. Any sharp surfaces were well-guarded by a mesh of metal, smoothly blocking access to the blades and motor beneath. He eyed his bedside table; a glass of water, untouched. Well. Fuck Rassilon with his own rusty gauntlet.

The Doctor was touching him. He tilted the Master's head up, his fingertips so very close to his teeth, and the razor buzzed to life and set about crawling across his flesh. His resolve having drained out of him, the Master lay there and simply tolerated it. This close, he could smell the Doctor's clothes, the bitter-honey of his skin, the ozone-like spark of artron. He could close his eyes, breathe through his mouth, but the smell of it all still lingered in his throat.

'Better?' the Doctor asked, leaning back to take a look, as if admiring his own painting. 'Hold on, just a bit here,' he added, and quickly poked the razor along the corner of the Master's jaw.

Shifting his head, the Master rubbed his chin against his collarbone. Touching himself, _feeling_ , for the first time all over again. He refused to reply.

'How's the pain going?' the Doctor continued, still looking at him. 'Your legs look good.' He pulled at the Master's sleeves, which had sunk down to where his elbows used to be, and peered at the wounds. 'This one's almost there, but the rest are properly closed.'

'Unbearable,' the Master drawled. 'I get these electric pains up and down everywhere, it practically brings me to tears.' Which, of course, was equal parts lie (he'd learnt to live in constant pain many, many bodies ago), and truth.

The Doctor frowned, gently palpating across his shoulder, down the side of his hip. 'Are you being honest?'

The Master looked up at him, batting his eyes. 'Yes, I'd never beseech my pride for those narcotics of yours.'

'That isn't funny,' the Doctor said. 'It isn't.'

'It was worth a shot,' the Master offered, tilting his head up again and looking away. He longed to end conversations again by walking out, or walking closer - too close - or any number of things more tolerable than these endless chastisements.

The razor was dropped on the bed, forgotten. 'Master,' the Doctor started, just the right note of pleading, and _that_ always made him perk up, 'I'm at the end of my tether, here. I'm out of options, I don't know what else to _do._ You have to stop, today, right now. I _know_ there's something else in there, apart from hatred, and...destruction, I know it.'

The Master filed through any number of biting retorts, varied in their severity, and held his tongue with effort.

The Doctor went to place his hands on the sides of his arms, and ended up grabbing his ribs instead. Crouched, he peered straight through the Master's eyes with his own; brown, rotted dead. 'This is your last chance. It's mine, too.'

A small, uncomfortable tingle grew deep in the Master's belly. He took pride in breaking the Doctor, a bone who always grew wildly and haphazardly until he healed back together, uglier but stronger each time. He wondered if this time, the bone was too strong to be broken and re-set.

'I made my choice,' the Master said, forgoing venom for simple resolve.

'I need you,' the Doctor said, simply. 'I need you to let me fix this,' and the lack of bluster or sanctimony left the words raw and bleeding.

An iatrogenic deformity. He refused to believe he'd really taken him somewhere beyond repair. Not yet.

'Or else you'll leave me like this? You should have lobotomised me, and been done with it.'

The Doctor simply closed his eyes, his fingers clenching at his sides. Sensing weakness, a crack in the wall where the Doctor he'd found on Malcassairo might still be cowering behind, the Master prodded. 'But no, you'd rather force me to make that choice for you. Do the dirty work myself. Even your precious humans had more backbone than that - before, apparently, they discovered some morality. Shame I can't say the same for you.'

For a brief, furious second, the Master was convinced the Doctor was going to slap him. He even welcomed it, some proof there was a _person_ underneath that farce, that mask of lies and justifications and cute, comfortable little denials.

'I know why you're so ratty,' the Doctor said, suddenly, perking up. 'You probably need to eat, I can't remember when we last fed you.'

Weaned off his intravenous fluids, the Master couldn't, either. He diverted his attentions from the psychological battlefront, shunting the rage away to be collected later. He needed strength to move, to eventually escape. 'For once, I think you're right.'

And there it came - a flash of him, the real Doctor, raising his eyebrows cheekily and grinning, and for a split-second the Master was afraid this had all been another lie, too, 'Just sometimes, I am. Once in a blue moon. Any preferences?'

'Ortolan,' the Master reeled off, 'and if you're out of that, perhaps some foie gras. Ikizukuri, now that would be delightful—'

The Doctor clapped his hands to his ears. 'Or, you know, how about something less rich. Porridge. Let's try some warm porridge.'

'Joy,' the Master said, flatly.

'It won't take long,' the Doctor reassured him, 'Wait here a second, okay?'

The Master simply sighed, and stared off towards the wall.

 

***

 

The Doctor took a small spoonful of porridge, little curls of steam rising from the bowl, and gently blew over it. Involuntarily, the Master's stomach rumbled, and he'd thought he'd be happy never eating again, after waking up to find his limbs missing, but the smell had a way of convincing him.

The Doctor slid the spoon between his lips, his knuckles just brushing the Master's lip, and the Master closed his mouth over the bite of food and slid it back, over his tongue. He savoured it, never one to deny the baser pleasures if the opportunity arose, even if the texture was grainy, the taste stale.

He was fed another, and another again, and yearned for even just a simple prosthetic to feed himself with. A spoon, fantastic, a fork, even better - enough force, and he could sever a large vessel. Of course, ask, and risk losing whatever shred of the Doctor's trust he was supposed to gain by accepting his own helplessness - eat, and ensure he had the strength to take his chance when it came.

It would come. It always did.

His stomach, unused to being filled, spasmed and he retched in his mouth, swallowing the acrid taste back down. 'Wait a moment.'

'Okay,' said the Doctor, 'Are you alright? I can always put a tube in, if this is too hard. I picked something bland, it's just starch, you should be fine, but--'

'Yes, I'm fine, well done,' the Master said. The effort of using his stomach muscles to help sit up was too much, and he sunk back into the pillows.

The Doctor looked down at his bowl. 'You need to eat more than this. Maybe you do need a tube.'

'What I need,' the Master corrected, delicately biting off the words, 'is for you to stop pestering me.'

Seconds passed, counted out by the thrumming of the Doctor's fingers against the bowl. Tapping out of time, the Master inhaled sharply, and demanded, 'More, if you'd be so _kind_.'

The Doctor obligingly fed him, but the Master had truly reached the limit of what his body would accept. He shook his head at the spoon, pinning his lips shut and trying to gain some control over his roiling stomach.

'Come on,' the Doctor said, glancing at the bowl, 'You haven't eaten in too long. I need you to finish it.'

Grimacing, the Master accepted another half-spoon. 'You'll make me sick.'

'I'll give you some medicine to help with that,' the Doctor said, his voice soothing - to his ears, probably, to the Master's - distressing. 'For now, just eat.'

The Master pressed his lips shut, only to have the Doctor frown at him. 'Come on, you don't want the tube. In your nose. It'll tickle and everything.'

Feeling his hearts start to beat in an unknown, unpleasantly claustrophobic feeling, the Master tolerated the next spoon - the third, the fourth, the fifth. The feeling worsened, something like fear, if fear could be hot instead of cold, and prickle like an itch, and build like the need to breathe while underwater.

It happened quickly, without warning; a sudden _clench_ inside him that froze his thoughts where they stood, with just enough presence of mind to turn away before his stomach expelled itself over the bed, the floor. Panting, the Master braced himself through another lurch of sickness, coughing the last, stringy spots of bile to the floor. Unable to wipe his mouth, he turned to the Doctor, half-pained from the exertion on his thinned muscles, half-betrayed.

'I'm sorry,' the Doctor blurted, 'I'm sorry, I should have - here, let me - ' he reached for a teatowel, dabbing it over the Master's mouth and chin, 'I'll clean you up. One sec.'

'You fucking idiot,' the Master snarled, twisting his head from the Doctor's hands. His tongue recoiled inside his mouth, everywhere tasting of acid and bile. 'I tried to warn you, you useless, miserable, bloody _fool_!'

'Master, I-' the Doctor cried, grabbing him by the shoulders, 'Stop, just calm down, it's nobody's fault, alright?'

Anger fuelling his strength, the Master jerked away from the hold, and roared, 'It's _your_ fault, Doctor! All of this is your choice, your doing, your _fault_! This is how you destroyed Gallifrey, isn't it? Our home, Doctor, and you cowered in your TARDIS and told yourself it wasn't your fault, oh, poor, martyr _Doctor_ —'

'Stop it.'

'—but it didn't work, did it? Because you survived, and so did I, and I swear to Rassilon and Omega and anybody else you care to name, I won't ever let you forget that _you_ did this,' the Master thundered, pausing only to draw breath.

'I said _stop it_.' Then, the Master looked, and saw the Doctor's face furious and cold. The sight of him snuffed out his anger like water over a flame, leaving only hissing steam.

The Doctor turned on his heel, and left.

At first too shocked to respond, the Master quickly recovered himself, and settled for a savage jerk of his body that threw the Doctor's shaver onto the floor, the head snapping and skittering across to the door. His right arm hurt in a sharp, stinging way that probably meant he'd re-opened his wound. Fantastic.

As the adrenaline faded from his body, he was left with a sense of shaky exhaustion and the nauseating smell of vomit; down his shirt, on his bedclothes. The Master pinched his lips shut, turning to the other side of the bed and waiting.

The Doctor would come back. Surely.

Minutes passed, microspans that the Master could acutely feel, like a garden insect crawling across the hairs of his arm. He counted them through; ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-two. His sick was drying, seeping through his clothes and sticking to his chest where thankfully his gunshot wound was closed over, and either he was used to the smell, or it was too dry to waft up to his face. He wanted to toss his covers away. Modesty be damned, he was too hot, and sick of the tacky linen. Shifting his hips around, trying to nudge the blankets away provoked another round of phantom pains, and he had hardly the coordination or the strength to manage it.

Sweat sprang up thickly along his forehead, and he craned his neck to wipe it away. He could feel damp patches growing through his shirt and thought to yell to the Doctor for a change of clothes, but he couldn't. Wouldn't.

An hour and a half had passed, and thirst was a new priority. His mouth was parched, his throat still stinging and raw, and left with nothing else to focus on, the sensation was growing unbearable. Glaring at the door, he could manoeuvre himself to the edge of the cot, and brace himself against the low bars to lean across to his bedside table. There was a glass of water, in easy grabbing distance, and yet the Master tried to force his stiff, uncooperative, bedbound body to stretch far enough to grasp it with his teeth. The bars digging into his hip, the Master inched himself closer, just catching his front teeth over the rim of the glass. He pulled gently, trying to drag it closer, or tip it towards his mouth - and yes, there was a taste of water, cool and sweet ( _stale, dusty_ ), and as he worked it over his tongue the glass slipped out of his grasp. It tumbled to the floor, the glass frustratingly intact. The water was dripping slowly off his table, over a copy of _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_ , onto the floor.

Moments later, he heard footsteps clanking at speed down the hall.

'What's happened? Are you--oh,' the Doctor said, throwing the door open, 'Oh, Master, why didn't you call me?'

The Master blinked at him, truly unsure what to say.

'I'm going to get you cleaned up,' the Doctor said first, his right hand slipping into his pocket. He paused cautiously. 'But first, I...well, I can tell you're upset.'

'I'm not _upset_ , Doctor,' the Master said, attempting to remain on top of the situation, 'I just think you're being a bit of a prick.'

The Doctor fixed him with that pitying look, the one that the Master was rapidly growing to dread. He came closer, crouching at the Master's height. 'We're not going to get anywhere if you keep fighting me.'

The Master looked down at himself with distaste. 'Believe me, I'm not going to fight you on a fresh set of sheets and a clean shirt.'

'I really wish I could trust that,' the Doctor said, sadly, and before the Master had time to respond, a sharp pain drew him to the stump of his thigh, where the Doctor was quickly pressing the plunger on a small syringe, and smoothly pulling it out from the Master's body.

'What the _hell_ are you doing, Doctor?' the Master said, vaguely horrified, 'What was that!'

The Doctor sighed heavily, pulling down the Master's covers. 'Just something to calm you down a bit.'

'To bathe me? Are you going to sedate me every time I raise my voice?' the Master demanded, 'In which case, you may as well put me in stasis. What's next, will you tranquilise me for singing in the shower?'

'Master,' the Doctor said, running fingers through his hair, 'Just calm down. It's fine.'

He could feel the drug start to take effect; a gentle, floating pleasure that made him honestly wonder if that wasn't such a bad idea. At first, the touch annoyed him desperately, and then he found it was lulling and there was not much point being angry if he could simply sit and forget about this entire, sordid situation.

'That's it,' the Doctor said, reaching down to rub the back of his neck.

The Master smiled, finding the words and the way the Doctor was touching him intimately in a hospital bed slightly funny. 'Is this your way of being romantic, Doctor?'

The Doctor's eyes widened a fraction above him. 'No, I don't think so, but if that's what you want. We'll have to see.'

'I'm naked already,' the Master said ( _I see London, I see France_ ), 'Except the shirt. Throw it out for me?'

The Doctor didn’t seem to appreciate his sense of humour. 'Let's just start with you getting better, for now.'

The Master sighed theatrically, rolling his body to his side. Nothing hurt, which was more pleasant than he'd given it credit for, these last couple of years in this body. 'I really mean it about the shirt. I don't know if you realised, but I threw up. I threw up on the shirt.'

'I'll fix it soon, I promise,' the Doctor said, resting a hand across his forehead. Concentrating, he brought his other palm up to the side of the Master's face, pressing a thumb at his temple.

The Master thought it amusing and rather sentimental of the old buffoon, until he felt the Doctor _inside_ him. His mind, yes, but he'd slipped in so deeply, and the Master had let him press all the way to the hilt and—no, no, the Doctor was darting away from that thought and sorting through the rest of his consciousness, and the Master scrambled for control.

'Relax,' the Doctor said, in his ear, and the harder the Master focussed on the hands on his face, the words coming from his lips, the deeper the Doctor probed and the more the Master opened for him without realising he'd relaxed his control. 'And stop thinking about that, honestly.'

The Master savagely thought about lurid, over-sized human breasts bouncing around atop sweaty human men, every vile pornographic image he'd sat through while Lucy _oohed_ and _aahed_. The Doctor zeroed in on that semi-fond contempt and singled it out, tugging on the thread of Lucy Cole and unravelling a complicated picture of emotions the Master had hardly visited, had no need for.

One particular scene was drawn out; the first time she'd said no. The absolute scorn he'd held for her then, the frailty of her disgusting, leaking, sweating human body, the laughter he'd spat in her face and showed her precisely what he thought of her _opinions_. He'd honestly expected her to get over that, like every other time he'd pushed too far. But she hadn't. It vexed him, and then she wasn't a lovely little human pet anymore, and stringing her along on Daddy's lap became breaking her, until she dwindled to even less than the soulless thing she'd been before him.

'That's not true,' said the Doctor, and trawled backwards, away from the bruises and the dead eyes and pulling her hair so she'd _look_ at him while he was fucking her, back to when he'd shown her the end of the world. Pride surged through him, and the Master felt his mind open with a lazy smile, just a little, just too much, and he shut down. Too late - the Doctor had seen.

'You'll remember her like that,' he said, 'you owe her that much,' and the Master felt the threads snap one-by-one, their memories and emotions and beliefs dripping away like so much sand through his fingers.

He missed her.

'Doctor,' he croaked, floating in a place where he honestly felt not a scrap of anything, but sadness lying just out of reach all the same, 'Stop.'

Martha. She'd won, and that surely earnt her a modicum of respect, but he'd _had_ what he wanted and she took it away. Ah, he'd be angry, he'd vow to kill her and make the Doctor watch, but his revenge had been more subtle. Her poor, useless family, her sister - and wouldn't the Doctor like to know what he'd done with her, while he was faffing about obliviously—ah _ah_ , Doctor. Not telling. There were some scars that would never heal - and _that_ got to the Doctor, he could feel the surge of hurt there.

Snap. That one broke free with a _twang_ that resounded in the Master's mind, like broken piano strings.

Fear started to set in. He was so terribly comfortable, here, in his bed, but he didn't _want_ this - and oh, there they went, their names and faces losing definition, he'd once remembered every word she'd said and now just a face and a few, choice retorts he'd thought were quite funny—

Panic, now. 'Doctor, that's enough, you've got to change my shirt!'

No words - just the Doctor's stupid, boyish grin and overbearing pompous guilt and all that useless, bleeding-heart _love_ , pressing and crowding out his thought. He could feel his mind shredding.

The Master fought to concentrate, draw himself into a single space and realise he needed him _gone, now_ , and throw the Doctor out with the force of a railway car. He jerked away from the Doctor's hands, breaking the connection, finding his whole body sweating furiously and his lips shaking.

'Okay,' the Doctor said, swallowing hard, 'You did well. Okay. We'll do some more tomorrow, but that's it for today.'

Things were going dark. His vision was prickling at his eyes, the Doctor's voice drowning out into a droning, steady buzz, and he didn't want to let it take him but it was so much _easier_ not to fight.

 

***

 

'Good, you're awake. I was getting worried, but you haven't really slept much today,' the Doctor chattered, his voice grating and chirpy.

The Master groaned, cracking open one eye. 'What did you do? Knock me out with a bat?'

'No, of course I didn't,' the Doctor said mildly, waving a glass of water in his face.

'Feels like it,' the Master mumbled, shifting around. 'Give me that.'

The Doctor pressed the glass to his lips, and the Master clasped them around its rim, drawing the glass back and encouraging the Doctor to tilt it down his throat. He gulped down the first two mouthfuls, and then the water was spilling out the corners of his mouth, and he had to jerk his head before the Doctor would pull it away.

'I'll bring a straw next time,' the Doctor mused, placing the water on the bedside table. He fiddled with the glass, twisting it around on the desk. 'And you're feeling alright?'

'My head feels like you put the Chameleon Arch on it and turned it on,' the Master said, leaning back and closing his eyes.

The Doctor sighed, above him. 'You should feel better soon. Want me to stay?'

Snorting, the Master responded, 'No. Absolutely not.'

It was only when he heard the _click_ of the lock on his door that the Master opened his eyes, shuffled to a sitting position, and took stock of himself.

Something wasn't right. It was there in the haziness of time, which ought to pass in atomic precision, in the sluggishness of his thoughts. His mind felt raw, haggard, as if he'd accidentally slipped his hand in a blender and whipped it out before any real damage could be done. Pieces of his train of thought were missing.  There was a panging, empty ache, and its name was Lucy Cole. He'd promised her everything, and here he was - alone, limbless, and where was she, in this? He didn't know. Something must have gone wrong.

It was strange, this human woman who'd never been so much as an accessory. And yet here he was, thinking of her.

After a few, blank moments, the Master remembered the Doctor combing through his mind, hours before. Vividly, the image came of wanting him to stop, _asking_ him to stop, and being too weak with sedation to protect himself. And then, something was missing. Something was missing, and so were the memories of the Doctor's meddling that ought to have told him what had been hidden.

Blind rage came next, and the Master pushed it away. No. Something had been taken.

Frantic, the Master catalogued every moment of that year - from the burning of Japan, to Jack's broken body reforming itself on the surveillance footage, to the look of exquisite betrayal on gullible Tish Jones's face, when he'd loaded her family into the back of a van and shipped them aboard the Valiant, and then her mother, who could have killed him and didn't - and there it was again. Blank.

The rage went cold inside him, numb.

The Doctor had done this.

First his body, then his mind.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Useless device, it won't suffice_   
>  _I want a new game to play_   
>  _When I am gone, it won't be long before I disturb you in the dark._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :') Your dreadfully unreliable author is back with about 4K of fic. I've had most of this chapter sitting in my drafts for a while, but the bit that comes after this has been eluding me. Oh well, time to post and hope it drags the next part out of me! I'm aiming to keep this short-ish and dense - probably no more than 20-30K. This part contains references to nonconsensual sex, and a few other nasty things. As usual.

The Doctor knocked on his door, a tentative set of taps. Instinct told him to turn his head away in spite, to refuse the hot, greasy smell of the food lingering alongside him. Instead, the Master bit the inside of his cheek, and twisted his lips into a false smile.

‘Brought you some lunch,’ the Doctor said, ‘We’ll take it slower, this time.’

It took time, too much time, to remember the relevance those words held, to realise he’d tried to feed him yesterday, too. The rushing blood of anger quickly drained into caution, and the Master said, ‘Thank you. What is that, fish and chips?’

The Doctor startled at something, set the plate down, and crouched over the Master’s prone body. ‘Oh, Master,’ he said, swiping his thumb over the Master’s lower lip. It came away red; he’d split a lip, the skin so dry and cracked he hadn’t even felt the blood well. ‘How’s your arm?’

The Master shifted both stumps upwards, craning his head to see them. ‘Missing, still.’

‘No, here,’ the Doctor corrected, pulling up the rolled cuff of his shirt to expose his right shoulder. ‘This really isn’t healing well.’

The Master took the opportunity to quickly browse the Doctor’s body for any obvious concealments. Running a tongue over his jagged lips, he began, ‘Just chips. I’ll hang myself later for saying it, but they smell delicious.’

The Doctor looked visibly disturbed at that. ‘Okay, you can have some.’

He drew up as much effort as he could muster to feign a kind, concerned expression. ‘It’s just a joke.’

The Doctor helped him upright. Hearts pounding, the Master accepted a bite of a single chip, held under his nose. Even as the smell overwhelmed him, the soft, sweet innards woke in him a desperate hunger, and he wolfed down the rest. The Doctor patiently fed him five, six more, until the Master asked for a break.

‘You alright? Let me know, I can give you something for the nausea, I have it here with me,’ the Doctor babbled, patting down his pockets.

‘I’m fine,’ the Master insisted, an edge of annoyance to his tone, ‘I only need a moment.’

‘It’s here somewhere, then you can eat a bit more, you’re probably still really hungry,’ the Doctor continued. ‘Wait, I brought this too!’ He pulled up a bucket from under the bed, placing it beneath the Master’s chin. Infuriating, to be ignored one moment, a spoon shoved in his throat as he threatened to be sick, only to be unable to even bat away a bucket the next.

Drawing a steadying breath, the Master simply stared into the blue plastic until he was ready to eat again. Another seven chips, and he pronounced himself full.

The Doctor looked pitifully at the half–plate remaining, and pushed it aside after a concerning delay.

‘So,’ he said, ‘I think we made good progress yesterday. I know you don’t like it, but you won’t talk to me, and when you do it’s only to hurt me. I can’t trust you like this.’

‘I’ve always been like this, Doctor,’ the Master said, exasperated. ‘You can’t change me.’

‘I can’t trust you like this. I can’t let you back out, into the Universe like this. There’s no–one else anymore to stop you,’ the Doctor intoned, a morosity in the deep brown of his eyes. ‘I want you to be free again. Don’t you?’

Quickly, the Master chose his strategy, and hoped like hell he’d judged this right. ‘I do. I really do. What you did – yesterday – it helped. The drums are quieter, things are...clearer. I find it hard to believe you can fix me. I still want to try.’

The Doctor perked up instantly, and the Master carefully guarded his expression against the fear he felt pressing in on him, again. ‘So, you’ll work with me? You’ll let me in again? I can give you the relaxant, if that helped, if it made it––’

The Master let his lip wobble, caught it between his teeth. He looked down, closing his eyes for a moment, and then fixed them earnestly on the Doctor. ‘Doctor, I don’t want you to _make_ me better. It can’t just be all you. I want to do this myself, I want to at least try. Just show me _how_.’

All noise seemed to be sucked out of the room, leaving a vacuum where he and the Doctor remained, at the centre in complete isolation. The silence lasted, the Master refusing to break his stare.

And then, from the Doctor, a nod. ‘You’re right.’

 

***

 

Cooperating was significantly easier, with the threat of the Doctor tearing apart his mind still raw and terrific. He’d submitted himself to regular meals, three a day, and the energy that meagre action had sapped from him rendered him too exhausted to protest, or banter.

Gruelling as the feeding process was, slow and humiliating, the Master knew his strength would only return if he ate. And with his strength, combined with charming the Doctor, would come independence – and then, at last, escape.

Today, the Doctor had promised to bathe him, along with a change of clothes. The shirt – short-sleeved this time – lay folded at the foot of the cot, where low bars protected the end he couldn’t reach. The blue bucket was filled with warm water and mild soap, and the Doctor had a sponge and hand towel tucked under one arm.

He unbuttoned the Master’s shirt, ignoring his nakedness beneath. Freeing the sleeves and slipping the material beneath him, he encouraged the Master to hold himself upright while he pulled the old clothing free. Panting, the Master slumped back, his hearts fluttering. He heard the sponge drop into the water, and then the wet warmth was against him, sliding over his chest.

‘You’ve stopped losing weight, I think,’ said the Doctor, carefully manoeuvring around the bright pink of his newly-healed wounds. The Master had almost gotten used to his emaciated body, the way his ribs stuck out of his skin and hollowed out his stomach. And yet, he still fervently expected to be whole each time he looked down, only to find the lumps of flesh that remained of his legs.

The Doctor pulled him upright, supporting his weight with a hand between his shoulder blades. The warmth of the cloth ran over his back, the Master straining to lean forwards as the Doctor washed down to his buttocks. The dampness, cooling quickly, was followed by a brisk rasp of the towel over his back.

‘Okay,’ he said, ‘Lift up your hips, if you can.’

The Master couldn’t. What was left of his legs waved about in the air, the muscles unused to their new size and weight, and the Doctor pulled his pants down over his hips. The elastic hung so loosely, barely catching over the curve of his buttocks as it was slid down. Hoisting him up beneath the shoulders, the Doctor pulled them free.

A grimace was twisting across the Doctor’s face. He lifted the Master’s left thigh, and hissed as he dabbed at the bony crest of his buttock. The wet cloth came away mottled pink, and the Master craned his body to see.

‘Bedsores,’ the Master said with distaste, becoming aware of the chafe of linen against raw, open flesh now he’d been alerted to it. ‘You’ll have to turn me over.’

‘I’m sorry,’ the Doctor murmured, dabbing at the wound. ‘It’s okay, it’ll heal. You’ve come this far, it’s just a little raw spot.’

The Master hesitated, chewing over his words. Careful, now. ‘I could change positions. Best move me at mealtimes, to keep it regular.’

The Doctor smiled at him indulgently. ‘That’s a good idea. Does this hurt, cleaning it?’

‘No,’ said the Master. He tilted his head down, lowering his gaze. ‘But lying on my side – my strength is improving, of course, but if I fell forwards…’

‘You won’t suffocate,’ the Doctor reassured, gently releasing his thigh. He looked down at him. ‘The bedding is nice and light, and the pillows.’ He patted them for emphasis. ‘Perfectly safe.’

As if the Master hadn’t already noticed, even on his hazier days. Now, he ducked his head, as if shy. ‘It’s just this body. I get a touch of claustrophobia in it.’

The Doctor’s mouth fell open. ‘Oh. _Oh_. Oh, Master, of course. I’ll stay with you, don’t worry. It won’t happen, I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen.’

Fear pressed in on him from all sides. The Master clenched his teeth as subtly as possible. ‘I don’t want to trouble you, I must already be annoying you––’

‘It’s no trouble at all,’ the Doctor insisted, and shifted the cloth to his groin.

The Master’s fingers dug into the sheets, and he wanted to scream as they hit nothing but air, and from there seemed to go through the bed. The fingers he didn’t _have_. ‘Well, perhaps I ought to try and move. Get out of bed. Even just a little time outside would stop the sores.’

The Doctor carefully cleaned his cock, rubbing the washcloth over his balls and inner thighs, and somehow succeeding in making the Master feel even more like his body was a child’s; sexless, without agency.

‘I thought I would start small, so I can’t injure myself,’ the Master hurried, as if he could make the Doctor rush, too, away from the intimate areas of his body. He hissed as the Doctor’s cleaning probed further behind, wiping between his buttocks. ‘Maybe a few minutes a day, supervised, and if there’s any pain, we can add some rest days…’

Babbling. _Idiot_.

The Doctor paused, and simply looked at him, his mouth curving into an empty, pitying smile. ‘You’re not well enough to be out of bed. I know you don’t like to show being scared, but I promise I’ll watch you. You have to trust me, now.’

‘I’m not scared,’ the Master snapped, his patience dwindling. ‘I don’t need you to supervise me.’

‘You have to stop lying to me,’ said the Doctor, throwing his cloth into the bucket. He drew his hand over his face, as if exhausted. ‘We’re all we’ve got.’

For once, the Master couldn’t be angry with him. No, this was his _own_ fault, and he deserved his own fury for being so stupid. _Careless_. ‘I don’t _want_ you watching me, every waking moment of my day! What, do you think I get too much privacy, being fondled by you every time I want to piss? You think I enjoy that? Well, whatever your pet humans have told you about your _prowess_ , Doctor, I’m afraid they’ve lied, because nothing in the universe could be more repulsive than your touch!’

This time, no hurt flickered over the Doctor’s face. He regarded the Master with a calculating eye. ‘Tell me. How are the drums today?’

The words chilled him to the bone. Mind whirling, the Master licked his lips and tumbled out, ‘Yeah. Bad.’

‘Let me in,’ the Doctor said, raising a hand to his cheek. The Master fought to keep from flinching.

Biting his lip, he shrugged the hand away. ‘I want to do this on my own. I know I can do it.’

The Doctor raised his fingers, again, pressing them more firmly against the Master’s temple. ‘Let me in. I promise it’ll help.’

Frantically, the Master reordered his mind, drawing his humiliation and powerlessness to the surface and shoving the anger, the ever–closing fear as deeply down as he dared. He layered himself as the Doctor wanted to see him, his conscious mind tucked beneath a tumult of emotions and whimsical memories he thought the Doctor might approve of.

Without psychotropics warping his mind, he was still the stronger telepath.

And with that last reassurance, he allowed a pinhole to open in his mind, through which the Doctor’s cold and twisted mind, blanketed in saccharine optimism, wormed its way through.

The Doctor encountered a memory of his fifth self, alongside the Master, fleeing from the blasts of Cybermen, and turned it away as if he couldn’t allow himself to behold it. Instead, he rifled through the hopelessness the Master felt at losing so much of his independence, the shame of having to be nursed. He projected his feelings back – a distorted mirror; where the Master saw shame, the Doctor saw pride, devotion, duty. Self–indulgent sacrifice and possession intermingled between them, until it was the pride of a parent winning a child beauty pageant, the duty of a late–night TV evangelist – a commercial salvation only, wedged between sex ads for the lonely and sleepless masses.

And while the Master recoiled, the virtual self he’d created at the surface of his mind, the interface which butted up against the Doctor’s thoughts responded with quiet introspection. It would have to do. He had no gratitude, no love in his conscious mind to feed it with.

It seemed to satisfy the Doctor all the same. The Master gasped with relief as his mind, his last remaining sanctum, was returned to him.

‘Thank you,’ the Master made himself say, dismantling the barriers over his conscious self.

The Doctor ran fingers through his hair, grinning down at him. ‘I’m proud of you.’

He forced himself to stay still, to tolerate this. But even as the Doctor tired of touching him, having dressed him and placed him on his side, he drew up a chair to sit, facing him. The Doctor placed an elbow on his knee, and cradled his chin in his palm, staring at the Master and through him, as if lost in thought.

Nowhere in his field of view free of the Doctor’s hovering presence, the Master simply closed his eyes and hoped this new hell couldn’t last long.

 

***

 

The Doctor was peering down through his glasses at a battered book. ‘But the little woman evidently expected her to answer, so Dorothy said with hesitation, “You are very kind, but there must be some mistake. I have not killed anything.”’

The Master stared blankly at the bathroom door.

The Doctor took a breath, and continued reading. ‘“Your house did, anyway,” replied the little old woman. “And that is the same thing. See,” she continued, pointing to the corner of the house. “There are her two feet, still sticking out from under a block of wood.”’

He lowered his voice, speeding up the pace of the words as if they might genuinely be riveting. ‘Dorothy looked, and gave a little cry of fright. There, indeed, just under the corner of the great beam the house rested on, two feet were sticking out, shod in silver shoes with pointed toes.’

The Doctor liked to do voices, too. ‘“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” cried Dorothy, clasping her hands together in dismay. “The house must have fallen on her. Whatever shall we do?”

“There is nothing to be done,” said the little woman calmly.

“But who was she?” asked Dorothy.’

The Master sighed, and cut in, ‘The Wicked Witch of the West.’

The Doctor scowled at him, braced the book between his thumb and palm, and tilted his glasses up. Clearing his throat, he continued, ‘“She was the Wicked Witch of the _East_ ,” answered the little woman. “She has held all the Munchkins in bondage for many years, making them slave for her night and day. Now they are all set free, and are grateful to you for the favour.”’

‘Isn’t that a bit kinky for a children’s book?’ he commented drily.

The Doctor simply shot him a look, and threatened to open his mouth again. ‘“Who are the Munchkins?” inquired—’

‘I’m thirsty,’ the Master interrupted.

‘Oh,’ the Doctor said, setting down his book. He took the glass of water from the Master’s bedside, poking the straw between his lips. The Master sipped, dragging it out as long as possible, until the glass was empty.

‘Are you still thirsty? I’ll refill it,’ the Doctor said, that awful, nurse’s smile on his face again.

The Master nodded, eager for the Doctor to leave the room, if only for a second. Instead, he simply opened the door to the bathroom, and leant over the sink. The Master could hear the water gurgling from the tap.

‘So,’ the Doctor said, pulling the chair close enough to sit and offer the straw at the same time. ‘Are you liking this one better than Narnia?’

The Master took a sip only long enough to satisfy the Doctor, and let the straw fall out of his mouth. ‘It depends. Is the Wizard supposed to be some thinly–veiled Christian metaphor, too?’ Certainly, banter with the Doctor, even this blackened shell of him, was less asinine than what passed for Earth literature.

‘Well,’ said the Doctor, looking somewhat affronted, ‘I’d never really thought of it like that.’

‘Ah,’ the Master replied, ‘You probably thought the lion was supposed to symbolise _you_.’

The Doctor smirked. ‘That means I get to say you’re the Wizard. The great and powerful Wizard, hiding behind smoke and mirrors.’

‘Are you trying to say I’m a fraud?’ the Master glowered.

The moment seemed to freeze and electrify between them. The Doctor was caught in time, a grin stealing across his lips, his eyes lightening and glimmering with amusement. For a horrible, grotesque second, the Master was afraid he was going to kiss him.

Perhaps the Doctor had sensed his abject terror, because the laugh died between his eyes and his face, and the space between them went cold.

‘I’ll keep going?’ said the Doctor, picking up his book.

The Master’s shoulder ached, sending phantom pains shooting down the ghost of his right arm. He wanted to be rolled over, and then realised the Doctor would have to touch him, and thought better of it. ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

 

***

 

The Doctor put down the book only when his voice became strained, and he was satisfied that Dorothy and her nasty friends had arrived safely in Emerald City. The Master was attempting to doze, or at least trick the Doctor into thinking he was asleep.

He no longer left the room. He took all meals at the Master’s bedside, alternating between slurping down a jar of jam or overripe bananas while he delivered mouthfuls of simple, bland starches into the Master’s mouth.

The Doctor hoisted himself to his feet. ‘I’ll only be a moment, Master. Just borrowing the bathroom.’

The Master held his composure until he heard the _click_ of the toilet door unlocking, and the Doctor closing the door behind him. Alone, briefly, he imagined tapping his fingers against the side of the bed. A melodious, echoing tinkle of water drifted its way to his ears, and not for the first time, he felt as if he might explode with frustration, disgust.

Those mere moments of solitude ended suddenly, when the Doctor lazily swung the door open and wandered back to the Master. ‘Oh, you’re awake! I’m not sure where you got up to, but don’t worry, we’ll pick up from where you last remember. Unless you want to sleep, you must be tired.’

‘I’d like to be alone for a while,’ the Master suggested, forcing calm into his voice.

The Doctor pulled his chair a little closer, and slumped into it, threading a hand through his hair. He stared at the Master with a disconcertingly human mixture of devotion and exasperation. ‘Master. I’m not leaving you.’

‘I’d like to be alone for a while, _please_ ,’ the Master repeated, barely managing to pry his teeth apart to say the words.

The Doctor simply stared at him. He implored into his eyes, as if he could make contact if he gazed hard enough – a skill the Master was well aware he held over the Doctor. The Master attempted to break the eye contact, only to find the Doctor’s focus still pinpointed on him. Expecting.

Suddenly, the Doctor sighed. ‘What am I supposed to do, Master? All you do is lie.’

‘What lie, Doctor?’ the Master began, anger concealed by measured, soothing tones. ‘Which one do you want to hear next? Shall I tell you how much I _love_ it, having you play voyeur to every waking moment of my day?’ He twisted his face, let it form a tableau of deep remorse. ‘How much I appreciate your sermons? Teaching me how to be _good_ , after you murdered our people, and mutilated my body to finish off?’ And now, with venom, ‘Or shall I lie about you? How _grateful_ I am that it was you who survived, how much I need you, how I can’t bear the Universe without you—’ the Master paused, tilting his chin up to leer down at the Doctor. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. My mistake. Think those ones are yours.’

At first he expected fury, to see the dark heat of it flash in the Doctor’s eyes – but instead, his lip quivered, his teeth setting themselves on edge, and a hand launched out to reach his temples. The Doctor was against his mind, fearfully searching for a way in.

But the Master no longer cared for this farce, for playing the long game. Something about those vulnerable brown eyes, wet with hurt, ignited an anger and a determination in him. Fuelled by his returning strength, his healing body and replenished blood, now sweet with nutrients and pounding like drums in his ears—

 

_He was the Master._

 

—he drew the Doctor deep into his mind, snapping shut the great maw of it behind him. And before the Doctor could gain control, could orient himself in the inky black, the Master assaulted him with white-hot rage and smouldering contempt. He fed them into his mindscape, until the darkness became the blackened eschar of bodies destroyed by fire, until his very mind _smelt_ of holocaust. The choking smoke, the rubble, the death piled heavier, heavier still – and they collapsed into singularity, a black hole trapping the Doctor in its horizon as it tore him apart.

Horror blossomed, spreading like bloodstains through the fabric of the Master’s mind, and he held the Doctor deeper under – showed him what it _felt like_ to fuck Tish Jones, and months later feast on her violation like a well-aged whisky, how he’d only killed Chang because the Doctor had liked him, how he’d shuddered and grown hard as Time bent around his very own paradox. And the lives, the countless lives he only remembered in the beautiful, carefully planned chaos their deaths left behind. He snuffed them out as he’d snuffed out stars, and entities more almighty than snivelling apes could even _imagine_ , and oh – there could be no better revenge in the Universe, than living to see the great and mighty Doctor stoop _even lower_ by his own standards _._

The Master opened his eyes, releasing his hold. The Doctor’s eyes were wide, pupils dilated against a thin rim of brown, his face utterly drained of colour. Stiff as a corpse, the Doctor took a single, shuddering breath, and retched into the bucket still installed next to the bed.

The drums finally quelled, a hazy pleasure drifting through the Master’s body, he let his eyes slide shut. He knew the Doctor was leaving – long before the sound of the door clicking shut had even reached his ears.


End file.
